Over the hills and through the woods to the Cairngorms

Our next stop on the trip was the Cairngorms, on the other side of Scotland in the eastern Highlands.  One would think, looking at a map, that you could just head due east and get there in relatively short time, but no.  We had to take the bus north to Inverness, then catch a train southeast to Aviemore, then hop on a bus to Glenmore, then walk up the hill to where our bed and breakfast Cairn Eilrig is located behind the Reindeer Center. 

But I'm not complaining.

How can you when you have views like this from the bus?

This is a far cry from my experience with bus rides, which has been limited mostly to the stretch between O'Hare airport in Chicago and my hometown of Rockford, Illinois, where there are cornfields as far as the eye can see and random collections of industrial buildings.

We passed lots of homes like this. 

We rode for a long time along Loch Ness. Nessie did not make an appearance. It wasn't really the weather for monsters--the sky was a lively blue and the surface of the loch was dappled with sunlight. No mist or moaning wind.

We arrived in Inverness, where the buildings all seemed to be carved out of the same block of stone.

Various storefronts tried to introduce a dash of color into the mix.

The train station was modern, white, and airy. These little guys were posted on a wall.

We arrived at Aviemore Railway Station, which was decorated with candycane colors. I loved the railway stations of the United Kingdom. While the Victorians sometimes overdo it in the decorating capacity, their railway stations are lovely.

Our final destination, Cairn Eilrig (Hill of the Deer Walk), where we met our gracious host Mary and her black lab Poppy. 

How can you resist reindeer?  The Reindeer Center is located just beneath Cairn Eilrig.  I peeked over the fence numerous times during our stay in the Cairngorms.

We see the mountains of Scotland for the first time

After we descended all 212 steps of the bell tower in Bath Abbey, we headed into London to catch the Caledonian Sleeper train to Fort William, Scotland.

We started laughing when we opened the door to our compartment.  There wasn't standing room for both of us and our luggage.  We managed to situate ourselves and our monstrous bags, and I fell asleep to the lull of the train working its way north through England.

The wild hills of Scotland greeted us when we awoke the next morning.  We sat at the window mesmerized by the landscape.  It was quite a change from the gentle hills of England.

The train conductors don't announce stops.  You're expected to be ready and waiting with your luggage at the doors to alight when the train rolls into your stop.  You have a few minutes to jump off before the train starts rolling again.  Fort William was the end of the line for both us and the train, so there wasn't a rush to get off immediately.  Though who would want to stick around in the closet-sized compartments any longer than they have to is beyond me.

We walked two miles to Achintee Farm, where we would be staying for 4 nights. The Ben Nevis path begins within several hundred yards of the hostel.  I chose this lodging wisely, if I might say so myself.

The mountains are ever-present.  They loom over us all, slumbering giants, ponderous with the weight of time immemorial. Ben Nevis is the greatest peak in the United Kingdom, at over 4000 feet high.  In the picture above, the Ben is the brooding mountain on the left.

Foolhardy or not, we went on to climb all 4000 feet soon after we checked into Achintee Farm.  I'll share my tale of the 10 hour ascent on another day.

And so it begins

Jon was soon to wearily acknowledge his wife's propensity for picture-taking, especially self-portraits documenting places they've been, even airplanes and trains

After the long haul over the ocean (during which I am certain I saw lights along the Icelandic coast) and the flurry of Heathrow Airport, we arrived at Paddington Station in London. Pigeons fluttered about underfoot.  Grand Victorian architecture soared overhead.

This picture makes me wonder how often I show up in other people's pictures, a random person caught mid-step for perpetuity

People spoke with British accents. Normally - because that's how they really talk. I couldn't get over it. English is their native language too, and yet they pronounce things differently. What a concept for my parochial brain to grasp.

After this stunning introduction to the country, we caught the train to Chippenham and from there, the bus to Lacock, located in the southwest part of England in the county of Wiltshire. While waiting* for the bus, we got to be amateur anthropologists and covertly study the natives.  Our conclusions?  Teenagers are the same everywhere, regardless of accent or nationality.  What a revelation.  We did not indulge in amateur anthropology anymore after this discovery.

We arrived in Lacock, then shouldered our duffel bags for the walk** to Reybridge.  We had packed as light as we could, but our bags were still heavy (35-40 pounds), especially if you're packing for three weeks. Right when my shoulders began to protest vigorously, we made it to Damson Cottage.

Damson Cottage's blue door triggered my fascination with blue doors specifically, and painted doors in general.

Our hostess informed us of the public access footpath to Lacock.  It passed between several really old houses,

 through several sheepfields, 

over several stiles, and up a shady lane bordered by lovely stone fences.  I was happy, especially at the thought of walking through sheep.

The sheep weren't as thrilled.

I couldn't get enough of green doors, either

Lacock was a delight to explore.  

These buildings are older than America.  

It hasn't changed much over the past 250 years, due to careful management by the National Trust, which purchased nearly the entire village in 1944. 

The George Inn was a public house while Chaucer was alive.
 

We had our first dinner in England at The George Inn, which dates back to 1361.  When we first arrived, we sat at a table and waited.  And waited some more, looking over at the bartender, who was chatting with a fellow at the bar, occasionally glancing over at us.  We waited some more before we realized he wasn't coming over.  We finally asked for a menu at the bar, at which time we discovered that You Always Order At The Bar Before Taking A Table.

The George was very atmospheric.

Full of nooks and crannies.

Mismatched furniture and oriental rugs were crammed into every available space.  Light came in through windows still fitted with their original glass, imperfections and all. 

We had a hearty meal of steak and ale pies, "veg" (vegetables for us), and warm beer.  After relaxing for a bit, we walked back through the sheepfields at dusk to Damson Cottage.  It was the fitting end to a very long day.

*This was to be a preview of our travel for the duration of the trip: waiting.  We're so used to hopping in the car and going, that the notion of waiting is a somewhat foreign concept.  J. and I had to spend time throughout our trip examining bus and train schedules to make sure that we caught all of our connections in a timely fashion.  Initially, this was overwhelming, but it soon became curiously enjoyable.  Schedules and maps fascinate me.  I like perusing departure times and following lines on a map, imagining all the various permutations of possible travel.  This is probably why I was the primary trip planner.

**We walked.  A lot.